Teach Me
by jokergurl92
Summary: Hot-tempered Lita waitresses at a bar/diner filled with rude customers, and a belittling boss. A small bet begins an interesting arrangement between herself and a certain scarred customer. Lita needs to learn submission; Jack is the perfect Dom to teach her self-control. But Jack has darker plans set for a woman whose demons are as wily as her rage. (will edit story soon 4/17/14)


**Teach Me**

/

Author's Note: I'm late on the reading of _Fifty Shades of Grey_, but I've decided to read it and it gave me a really, naughty idea what to do with a Joker story. So here is what my mind has cooked up. T**his is Rated M probably after the first chapter** for later chapters that will include but be not limited to: Language, sexual content, BDSM, etc.

/

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the DC Comics people (Joker, Batman, blah blah blah), but I do own my OC(s) in this story. Odds are, if they don't sound familiar, they're my creations. Second: For those who just _have_ to know, my Joker is based on the mixture of Heath Ledger's sexy portrayal of him in the _Dark Knight_, and also Scott McClure's Joker in _Joker Blogs_ (and excellent web series you must definitely watch if you're a Joker fan).

**Chapter One: Lay The Bait**

**/ **

"Table 1 for two."

I bit my lip when I heard Chef Lioni's thunderous, deep voice call out to any waitress who would take the table. I'd just come from the bathroom, changing out of my comfortable clothes into a short-skirt, red and white dress that accompanied a pure white apron that tied around the neck and waist. In the pockets were pens and writing pads for scribbling orders down, but I used them for the benefit of the chef, not mine; My memory was absolute.

Glancing from the corner that was the bathroom, I saw that a man and woman, who looked awfully like a prostitute, were sitting at a booth, talking loudly; their raucous voices shuffled my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard; how rude they were being! I frowned in spite of myself, stepping back into the bathroom as if I'd not heard the order.

_Let someone else get them_, I thought. _I have no patience __for __that._

My subconscious returned with a sneering chide, _You have no patience __**at all**__._

Well that was true, wasn't it?

I looked in the mirror. For thirty minutes before my most recent retreat to the white, dingy bathrooms of galore, I had been standing before my reflection, staring intently at my long fiery red hair that was impossible to dye any other color; it dropped to my shoulders, and it was a hell of a time getting it to stay in a ponytail. When I redid it, I was very aware of my procrastination. Being a waitress at Big Bob's Diner, one had to look their best to live in a world like Gotham City; the tips received were split among waitresses, and you couldn't get by with your wages alone. So every girl here was naturally good-looking, flirtatious, boisterous, and all of them lied out of their teeth when asked if an ugly mob thug questioned their own attractiveness.

If money was shown, the girls automatically enthused _Yes, you are attractive. So hot. _

Me? I still couldn't get over the fact that I even dressed this inappropriately for work and it was allowed. Still, it gave me the money I needed to live day-to-day without having to live on the streets; and while I preferred working as a waitress or maid in Buckingham Palace, I doubted that opportunity would arise anytime. In a place like that, one needed to be flexible...

I wasn't that at all.

In the mirror, I constantly changed my hair, flicked my bangs, and became gradually frustrated that my hair would not do as I wished. My uniform was tight, so I rearranged my girls so that they weren't being lined by the compressing seams. The bright eyes tinged with disappointment in the already low evening...I guess things couldn't get worse.

My tables could be a wreck from...

When I walked out of the bathroom, I was met by my supervisor, Ethel Reins. Large, portly woman with curly brown hair, a pink face, and a dead pan stare that made me realize I was in trouble again. Ethel ordered one of the other girls to take my foreseeable tables as she took my wrist in a vice-like grip, and forced me to follow her. Angered by her trepidation on my existence, I wrenched my arm from her.

"What the hell!" I snapped furiously; I sooner than later caught my temper, and recovered immediately, "Sorry, Ma'am..."

"Don't apologize," Ethel ordered none too politely.

I think some of her spittle landed on my cheek and I notably wiped it away with the deepest amount of sarcasm and disgust I could muster. My nerves were gnawing at my flesh, saying more than ever that they wouldn't mind hitting Ethel over the head. The way she treated her customers was ten times better than she treated her people.

"You were late." Ethel scolded.

We were behind the counters, in the kitchen area where Chef Lioni went back and forth, tossing pizzas, grilling hamburgers, frying the potatoes, and—since our regular bartender was absent due to a sex injury—was also mixing drinks. Ethel and I observed the heavy weight Italian's briskness and speed, impressed by how quickly he could move with four hundred pounds of weight on his legs, but that didn't keep Ethel distracted for long.

Her eyes sharply danced towards mine; I had the nerve to step forward and demand why she insisted on treating me like I was one of her Dachshund mutts (She had two). Instead, I gulped my frustration, folding my hands behind my back, and explained that I'd been in the bathroom for the last thirty minutes.

"Thirty minutes?" repeated Ethel.

Her voice was shrill, but it was quiet where it wouldn't disturb the other customers. That didn't mean the other girls and Lioni didn't hear the chiding; I was embarrassed by the way she spoke to me, and I think it shown clearly on my face as I felt my skin flush with heat; my freckles were probably brown spots on red flesh.

"You were supposed to be here forty minutes ago," scolded Ethel, pointing at me. "Where the hell have you been?"

This was a rhetorical question.

"_Nevermind_," snapped Ethel, shaking her round head; her cheeks jiggled, eyes bulging at me with the ferocity of a large cat ready to pounce. "Get Table 1; they've been waiting for half an hour, thanks to _your_ laziness—Karen's been waiting to go home for ten hours now, and it's so sad that you...

"_I get it!"_

Ethel stopped in mid-sentence as I nastily interrupted her. She stared at me, stumped by my sudden enraged outburst. When her surprise slowly dissolved into contempt, I suddenly became very fearful for losing my job. Immediately, I gritted my teeth, lowered my gaze, and said coldly, "I know I was late. I know it's my fault. May I get back to work...Ma'am."

Ethel's head lifted with arrogance at my response, knowing what hold she had on me. I grinded my teeth, my fists were clenched behind my back, and my nails were digging into my palms with no regard for the pain that was starting to settle.

Once more, I scolded myself for thinking any of the other waitresses would cut me some slack. I was always left to wait on the perverted sleaze balls, the overtly arrogant prostitutes, and the rude customers who tipped just enough to say they tipped me. When I glanced at Table 1 to get a feel for the atmosphere, I was perplexed to see that there were actually _three_ people at the table, not two.

_Three __assholes_, I thought unhappily as Ethel shoved three menus into my chest; I grunted with the impact, glaring at her as she walked away.

"Easy, girl," I heard Chef Lioni say as he passed me briefly.

I glanced at him—him and his Italian mustache and bushy black eyebrows. When my glowering didn't disappear, Lioni stepped towards me; despite his monstrous size, his fiery Italian blood, and his ability to eat four times his weight, Lioni was a gentle giant; he touched my shoulder, and mimicked one having touched a hot stove.

He licked his fingers, saying, "Ooh, that's a spicy meat-uh ball-ah!"

I giggled at his joke—everyone knew I was a hothead, and they supposedly admired that I could keep my temper strained for the most part. Externally, I appeared calm, cool, collected. But inside, I felt my inner beast growling, and my rage was festering; all of me wanted to hurt Ethel, to make her feel the worst pain possible. One day, I felt I'd reach that goal, but not now.

I had 3 asses to wait on, and I knew this night wouldn't let me sit on mine for long.

((()))

I stepped out of the kitchen with three menus on hand. When I arrived at Table 1, I noticed that the lady (if one called a whore by such terms), and sleazy, dirty gentleman were no longer there. Ironically, their jacket and purse (Respectively) remained on their chairs and at the bottom of the table. Glancing at this curiosity, I turned to see that the newcomer was there.

He was dressed in a dark suit—collared shirt, dark denim jeans. He looked so familiar to me that it was almost perplexing...I couldn't say I'd seen him anywhere outside of Gotham. This man had scraggly hair, and I noticed rough edges to his mouth.

When he looked up at me, I was taken aback to see the rough edges were actually scars, as if someone carved him like a pumpkin into one long, demonic, and permanent, smile. The darkness under his eyes expressed a lack of sleep or a surplus of it, but I bore him no ill will...for save the fact that he looked so fucking familiar.

I smiled lightly, hoping to ease whatever awkward feeling I had placed at the table. He said nothing, for save to stare at me without blinking. It made me uneasy, but I tossed those nervous feelings out of the door when it meant serving patrons.

"How are you doing today?" I asked, placing the menus on the table. "Just you, huh?"

Attempting small talk was a feat of mine; I found I could be rather humorous and witty with just the right company, even maybe a bit charming. However, this curious stranger (or did I know him from school—see _I can't remember_ where I'd seen him), looked at me pointedly.

"No. There are two others." He told me.

I was taken aback once more. I didn't expect such a light tone to expel from this man. He looked dark, creepy, one of those people I'd definitely keep a large distance in between if I ever walked the sidewalk alongside him. Maybe it was the dim, dingy lighting around this place but I swear that he was glaring at me. Could be, for all I know, a murderer in disguise and I just ruined his dinner with small talk. The glare and the light tone confused me; was he in a good mood, bad mood—neutrality at its best.

I accepted his statement as a fact, so I pulled out my writing pad. He watched my hands as I did so; they seemed expressionless, as if watching the life in front of him do as I had always done. I gave him a cool look, narrowing my eyes, wondering what he was thinking. He didn't seem the type for conversation for he never returned any of my small talk. I decided that this atmosphere was for business, nothing more.

"Would you care for anything to drink while you wait?" I asked calmly; I placed my hand in my apron and withdrew a ball point pen, clicking it, then touching the ink to paper.

The stranger watched me for a second as if deeply amused by my inquiry. He turned in his chair, turning his body to me as if about to get up; something I hadn't anticipated, but I held my ground. I was still badly wounded by Ethel's treatment to me and I didn't mind a good sparring with a customer—if I was going to get fired, I might as well do what I've wanted to do for the last five years I'd worked under her disparaging wing.

However, the customer didn't get up and insult me as I'd expected. _You never know what these people are capable of. _

Instead, he smiled at me.

I stared back. The smile, friends, was one that greatly disturbed me but made me smile in return. The scars on his face elongated with the smile, darkening his complexion, and yet enlightening me to what contagion smiling possessed. His smile was more of a smirk. Maybe I had impressed him with my congeniality, or perhaps, he was just in a good humor.

I hardly doubted either circumstance, so naturally, I looked puzzled.

"Actually," he said (I noticed there was something of an accent as he spoke), "I'm not sure that my other associates will be joining me any time soon."

"Oh?" I returned.

_Come on, Lita, flirt a bit. He's attractive in a roguish kind of way; maybe he's a good tipper._

"Why's that?" I asked, smiling lightly.

He rolled his eyes sarcastically, saying, "The same reason you should never take a whore to a business deal..Doll Face."

Nah, that didn't disarm me _at all_.

Contrary to my sarcasm, I was indeed disarmed by the statement—and how he called me 'Doll Face'. Normally, I _hated _when people called me pet names, but his was more...**selected**. You heard men call women all kinds of terms of endearment, and it would sound rehearsed...but his had been slightly paused. As if he'd chosen a different name for than what he'd normally call, say, the whore that was fucking some prick in a bathroom.

My over thinking was prominent for these things. He brought me back to my reality as he flicked his hand up in the air, waving at the ironic circumstance, then turned back in his chair. I didn't know if I should be insulted, amused, or thankful for that bit of advice, but at any rate, I found that I was clicking my pen nervously. I stopped the habit the moment the customer eyed me irritably.

"I guess I'll just order for them," he mused with a slighted annoyance.

I readied my pen and paper.

He turned his head to me, smiling again—it perturbed me that he looked likewise angered by the fact that his 'associates' were leaving him to talk with a chatty waitress, and yet he was smiling. Talk about mixed messages.

"I'll come back to the table when you're ready," I told him, seeing Ethel gesticulating to me that there were other tables waiting for my services.

The customer nodded his head, and I was free from the awkward silence.

As I took orders from one table, to Lioni, then retreated back on the floor to fetch more orders for pizza, burgers, beer, and other nasty combinations that would leave a person at the mercy of a bathroom, I glanced at Table 1..._why did he look so fucking familiar_!

Not a lot of people had those scars...except in New York. The Chelsea Grin was a popular torture method. I guarded myself as one with an excellent memory so if I had spoken to this guy more than once, I'd remember that accent. I'd remember his behavior. I'd remember him...

_Wouldn't I_?

"LITA!"

I glanced around to see Ethel pointing vigorously at Table 1; the whore and man who'd been absent earlier was back around the table. The talk was definitely business—the whore was just sitting there as if the situation interested her but she wasn't a prime factor in this deal. I decided to wait and watch—if I could see the 'talk' was no longer going on, I could move to the table without interrupting some drug mantra, or some disturbing news about how the bloody deed was done and all that needed to be done was to bury a man alive under Gotham's underbelly.

I shook my head, curious as to why my thoughts took a deadly turn for the worst at the most excruciating times. I reckoned I was tired—my anger regularly exhausted me sometimes to a physical point.

I walked to Table 1 when the two men were leaned back in their chairs. Notably, the one with the scars looked more or less relaxed in this dingy joint than, say, the man in the disheveled tuxedo. I glanced his hand—he was married. I doubted his vows were taken to his whore who was currently being fingered by her pimp daddy. Her expressions, squirming, the occasional moan of need and pleasure wasn't very inaudible.

The man with the scars seemed amused by my knowledge of the dirty acts taking place under the table for his half-smile returned, which was given to his associate in the tuxedo. I frowned when I recognized the fashion victim being one of Falcone's thugs, one of the Regulars whom were nasty and sleazy, and clearly delved into the hobby of cleaning out Gotham's Sewers.

_Regarding the whore, anyway._

I pulled out my writing pad and pen (man with the scars once more watched this action with almost a distracted interest), and I asked politely, "What do you want to order?"  
"Fries with that shake," Sharp returned.

_And here it starts._

Sharp, one of Falcone's thugs, smiled cheekily as I disdainfully hid my irritation at his boisterous laughter. At the same time he guffawed at his 'humorous' pick up line, I was very aware that the whore had come to his fingering. The other man was watching my reaction—to the man's poor sense of humor, to the whore's moaning, and everything in general.

"Fantastic," I muttered, inwardly rolling my eyes. I looked at Sharp: "Do you want a burger with that too? I hardly doubt you need it though."

At this, Sharp frowned dangerously, but the man accompanying him snorted with laughter.

Sharp removed his hand from the prostitute who looked relaxed for the obvious reasons, and the other hand pointed at me dangerously.

"No tip for you," He stated. "And I had a lot of money I could have generously handed over."

I shrugged: "That's a shame."

Sure, I was made unhappy by the fact that I didn't get a big tip that most mobsters gave me (the more polite ones anyway). But this man's awful personality made it worth not getting my share of extra money on the side.

"Burger, fries, and the same for my lady friend." Sharp ordered rudely, smirking at his whore with a loving caress of his hand on her hip. The girl smiled smugly at me.

"Okie dokie," I returned, writing down the order.

I turned my attention to the man with the scars, saying, "And you?"  
"The same," he returned.

As I wrote down the order, and informed that their dinner would come shortly, I began to walk away. Instead, I was surprised as I felt a hand on the hemline of my skirt, just along the back of my thigh. I froze—the hand up my skirt was cold to the touch, yes...but I was more disarmed by the fact that the same fingers that grazed my inner thigh also fell upon the switchblade I kept latched under a garter.

_What the..._

I looked to see it was the customer with the dark scars.

Talk about invasive!

I had every mind to show him that no man was simply going to touch me like that and get away with it but then I felt more than just a hand on my skin. It was a material that felt like paper, wrinkled...I didn't have to ask or check that it was probably money being tucked into the garter that also held a switch blade.

_Great, now I'm a fucking stripper._

I eyed the customer coolly, but he seemed to get that I was not in the mood to be tampered with. However, he didn't attempt to grope my ass, or feeling whether or not I was wearing underwear. Maybe the knife alerted him to the chance I'd actually use it. Instead, the stranger simply sat in his chair, smirked at me with eyes narrowed in amusement and interest, then returned to a conversation that was less than interesting.

I watched him for a second.

_What the fuck just happened!_

I quickly walked to the kitchen, gave Lioni Table 1's orders, and then I hurried into the bathroom. Curiosity peaked, I lifted my skirt, and pulled out from my garter to see that it was fifty dollars, and a small crumpled piece of paper. I opened it, expecting some sexual offer.

Instead it read:

_ I know what you've been trying to do._

_ I'm more than happy to help._

_ I know your type._

_ Don't think I do?_

_ Fifty dollars says I won't see you here at 11pm. _

_ P.S. The extra twenty is yours to keep. Don't think of sharing it with the other girls. If you do, I'll know. _

I stared at the note, written in capital letters, signed by no one. I counted the money, indeed finding the fifty he gave me as a 'bet', and the twenty dollar bill for a beautiful tip. A tip for what? Probably for smarting off to one of those most dangerous thugs in Gotham City over some cheap pick up line.

Maybe I _did_ humor him.

I glanced at the note again...

It then occurred to me why the guy looked so familiar.

I'd seen him on the sidewalks. I'd seen him here a couple of times, eating, drinking. I'd seen him in the mall when I'd occasionally splurge, and I had seen him on few occasions when I would go drinking.

It wasn't coincidence.

In a big city like Gotham, nothing ever was a coincidence.

I wasn't stupid to think that people just randomly met each other in the streets after just being at the opposite end of town.

No.

I'd seen this man and recognized him because for the past four months, I was very certain he was following me.

_So, Lita. Are you going to see what your stalker wants with you? I mean, he gave you twenty dollars in tips, and now he's betting fifty bucks that you won't take the risk to see him at eleven? Apparently, he knows 'your type', whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. And he's seeing what you're doing..._

I stared at the note.

What am I doing?

What _am_ I doing?

I stared at the wall. Did he see my attempting to break through my unconventional barriers? Did he see me attempting to defy my mother's habit of needing everything a certain way—did he see that I was a typical hot-tempered control freak attempting to risk her habits to feel wild and insecure.

Maybe...

_Don't tell me you're going to..._

I tucked the note and money in my apron.

The stranger knew me all right. I was interested. I was curious. What's more—and it's shameful—I didn't like losing at a bet. I'd take him on that kind of money. I'd meet my stalker here at eleven at night.

_Keep the knife with you, Lita._

I rolled my eyes at my subconscious. _Duh_.


End file.
